


Wooster Straightens Things Out

by livinginthepast



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 10:53:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7529893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livinginthepast/pseuds/livinginthepast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bertie Wooster has scoliosis, modern AU.</p><p>- probably not going to finish this ever (due to laziness and a busy life).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

I had been visiting the local teaching hospital regularly for about half a year before surgery. Bally waiting lists on the NHS are rather long! I'm sure if my condition was more serious the aged relatives would be able to pay for private treatment, but as it were I only had a bit of a curvy spine. Not nearly enough to cause a great amount of care and money to be dropped into the old lap, especially after the problems had with Uncle Tom's digestion.

Gussie Fink-Nottle had in fact pointed out to me that the Eton uniform was growing lop-sided as of late, and the health check confirmed it, I had a simple bit of Scoliosis. The dame and doctor advised me I would have to go to the hospital to be x-rayed and just generally 'seen to', which I assume translated into the Wooster corpus being poked at. My Aunt Dahlia (the one married to Uncle Tom), was rang and arrangements were made so I could go to the hospital with her later that day since I had no other obligations. Well, apart from perhaps having a bit of a chit-chat with the old Drones squad.

"So what did they say, Bertie?" Gussie's hair fell greasily over one eye.

"Well, it seems like I'm going to be examined after supper." I said trying to sound uninterested in the whole visit.  
You see, my friends still haven't quite understood how hospitals scare me to the absolute rummy core due to my parent's sudden disappearance from one when I was a young scoundrel. Of course I am not as young, nor completely grief stricken now, but the terrors remain. Rather inconvenient, what?  
Looking back I can see why the old ageing A. decided it best for her to join me despite having reason enough to stay home.

Time moved relatively slowly after this conversation, my entire focus was on what was to come. It was like a sudden tunnel on a train journey, one destination (which I knew of) but the rest of the world was completely in the dark.

When the supper bell rang I found myself not eating, but just staring at the plate. The waiters gave me a knowing look - no doubt they knew the sitch.  
After the unfortunate bout of not eating, I made my way to the reception and entrance of my house - Holland House. Aunt Dahlia was waiting there for me.

"Ah, there's the young blot!"

"Hullo Aunty dear!" I tried to sound sunny and excitable.

"We'd better get going soon. Taxi drivers nowadays don't like waiting as long as they used to."

We walked out the doors together clambering down the stairs leading up from the beautifully kept gardens.

"Now, Bertie, I know hospitals don't bode well with you. I completely understand it, blasted corridors and strange men peering and prodding you. In any case, I would rather this be over quickly and cleanly if you get my drift."

I nodded a non-committal reply. My mouth was suddenly dry and goose-pimples rose from my arms.  
The taxi ride was silent, I was thankful that it didn't last long and the driver stayed focused on the road instead of beginning an awkward conversation with us. It's bally annoying when they do that.

Anyway, the stitch went off without a hitch, if you'll excuse the ugly rhyme. We got to the hospital and all that was expected to happen, happened; we talked to various people and I was popped on a waiting list for surgery. The Aunt was seemingly radiating a cooling aura that soothed the old Wooster heart enough from beating like billy-o in the waiting rooms. There were three waiting rooms in fact, one for the consulting doctor, another for the x-ray room, and another for an MRI scan. In all honesty I ended up seeing how silly the nerves wheeze was, and relaxed immensely after the consultant had a bit of a chat with us just after the x-ray thingygummy. She said surgery seemed the most likely option - I'll admit that this rather scared me since I'd never had such a thing before.  
The consultant then explained the surgery to me. She brought out a bunch of props and showed me and the Aunt how my spine would be attached to some metal to straighten the blasted thing out. I figured that I would become half a robot, which would definitely help me with my exams - it seemed to make the experience all the more easier.

"Bertie, I damn well wish we could push your surgery forward a bit but it seems like waiting a few weeks is imminent. Don't get yourself down, young blot."

I smiled, "It's okay. I'm sure I'll be fine."

More tests and visits showed that my spine, although still curvy, was functioning and didn't have a bad effect on other organs.  
There was this one test that I had, about a week before the pre-op, where probes were placed on my head. It was quite an odd sensation having your wrists and ankles jerk about when you're not moving them. Aunt Dahlia couldn't stop laughing when my hands were taken over by electrical impulse and in turn moved quite erratically.  
The doctor was really pipped at our continued amusement and tried to make me relax and think about a calming beach scene. That wheeze worked pretty well for me although I could still feel all eyes on me once my own were shut. The same day I had a lung function test, and the giggles ensued. I had to blow into a large tube until my lungs had emptied really forcefully and quickly. The tube was really hard to stay serious about - it was like I was sucking on a blasted plastic cup, I mean dash it all it was rather awkward!  
Aunt Dahlia laughed boisterously, "You're rather good at that, Atilla."  
This particular doctor was far more understanding and gave us a moment to have a jolly good old laugh about the whole circ.  
I confess all the laughing drained the Wooster spirit a bit, so much so that afterwards I felt like crying.  
I was on my own for this one.

Gussie, Bingo, Oofy and Stinker began to stop bothering informing me of any strange happenings in Holland house. I supposed this was because the surgery would overlap with our own holiday time, thus giving them reason to ignore me until the next year. However, despite being bally annoyed, the stiff upper lip was buttoned tight. The surgery itself was enough to deal with but being excluded from my friends just rubbed salt in the wound, so to speak. At least Aunt Dahlia was supporting me - all these hospital trips were worth something I suppose.

After having all these tests and what-not the pre-operation seemed less and less scary. Although on the actual day I was as grey as an uncooked shrimp. My hands were limp like giant pieces of pasta hanging off my body. The whole image was the likeness of a Italian Seafood dish. I suppose these medical things aren't to be taken lightly!  
Bingo Little even remarked on my appearance during breakfast, which might I add is quite unusual as he's usually only interested in some new 'enchanting' infatuation. 

"You look fucking awful."

I winced at the swear word.

"Come on, Bingo. Keep up! Bertie's going for his pre-op today." Oofy interjected, him being the house captain it was quite understandable he knew all the whosits and whatsits that were happening.

Bingo looked pipped, "Oh."

I smiled slightly as I noticed Miss Baynton, the Dame, no doubt coming to take me to the aged relation so we could make our way to the teaching hospital.  
I gave a small wave to the chaps, and walked alongside Miss to the entrance.  
My feet didn't want to move in the usual fashion and instead tripped over each other.

"Wooster, are you alright?"

"I will be Miss, due expediency and all that."

She smiled sadly. It was quite the expression of pity and I suddenly began to walk in a far more conventional way. Baffling stuff, that.

"Ah, Atilla!" the Aunt exclaimed.

"What's up?" I bounded beside her wishing to be free from that ever present sickly expression that was still hanging on Miss Baynton's map.

The Dame left me and the A. to catch up, she didn't even say hullo! Bit strange of her.

"Bertie, you know I don't like that modern form of address..."

"Ah, Atilla!' Is hardly better though, is it aging relation?"

Darks clouds threatened to form over her eyes but were quickly whisked away with the phrase, "Are you ready?"

I nodded, whilst in my head several dreadful recollections of trying to sleep and being jerked awake by dreadful men poking me in white coats all but took over the grey matter.

"No time better than the present!" 

Lying, as it happens, is not really my forte. But in this instance nobody was inclined to tell me what a fat-head I was for being so bally obviously uncomfortable with the whole hospital circs. I rather thought that, if anything, today would be one of the most lenient days of living for this old Wooster. I relished in that thought.  
Well, I mean to say, I did it because I could, and it was a little comforting knowing everyone was slightly nervous.

Swiftly, the taxi arrived. With all the bounding spirit left in me, I bounded towards it.  
Once belted in the driver seemed more distant than usual, which was probably because of the thumping bass line that could be heard through that strange gap in the glass. Aunt A explained the location we wished to be dropped at and the driver grumbled a reply.

She lowered her eyes towards me and whispered, "What kind of music is that?"

I believe this was another 'occupied mind' tactic she had up her sleeve.

"I think it's called dubstep, Aunt." 

Well, I have to say her reaction was quite unexpected. She sniffed, loudly. It was so audible, that the driver himself looked up into the little mirror at my own saucer-like eyes.  
Chatter ran to a stop around this point, and I tried to enjoy the fact I was riding past some bland British beauty rather than counting the amount of nose hairs in some tutor's nose.  
I felt rather inclined to plug a pair of earbuds into the old shells and focus on some jolly lyrics. While this particular form of dubstep was not as cringeworthy as others I'd heard in the House, it would be so much nicer to have something a bit more calming as background music to such an event.  
Unfortunately, I didn't have such an object on me.

The arrival at the hospital was rather an odd ordeal this time round. I got out the cab and the Aunt paid as usual, however, I was quickly reminded this would be my last time here before surgery.  
Loneliness and hatred of biology shot through me, that is, until the consulting Doc. said I needed to do some more little tests.  
The hospital wanted a sample of my blood, urine, as well as swabs of my mouth and nose.  
The urine and swab stuff was rather self-explanatory and almost boring. Blood samples were about twenty times worse.

I was sent to a secluded room with a nice comfy looking chair. A strange looking cove with brown, intimidating eyes told me he was going to take my blood sample. I quite wished he wasn't going to, but alas...

A needle poked into the corpus and I winced in pain. The Aunt held my hand tightly. After the fourth vial out of five was full of blood I keeled over and threw up onto the floor, that acidic taste took over and I shut my eyes with the sheer force of it.  
Some previously inactive nurses jumped into action, cleaning the mess I'd made while Aunt Dahlia tried to comfort me.

"Don't worry, old bean, you'll be fine."

"I feel rather better after all that." I mumbled taking care to not look at the strange man who was now inspecting the blood.

We were sent out the room and told that the consultant had to leave due to some surgery or other. Aunt Dahlia still hadn't let go of my hand until we sat down in the next waiting room.

"What'd you expect we're doing now?" I started.

"Oh, Bertram... I know about as much as you."

Now it was Aunt D's turn to flash that gross smile of pity and shame and thingyness about it. It made me feel positively celadon.

A nurse called on us. We turned to walk into the door he stood at. 

"Hello, Bertram. One of our training PCT's is going to show you where you will stay after surgery. He won't be long."

Greyish and blue hues seemed to engulf us into the small, but cosy, office-space. Three chairs were inside arranged in the usual consulting fashion, and we were ushered to sit. We didn't stay waiting long for this PCT or whatsit fellow, he joined us fairly quickly.  
He sat in the chair opposite us his hair black and in-keeping with the formal, yet unusual, surroundings.

"Ms. Travers, Bertram, good afternoon."

We both gave our greetings.

"Now, we're not going to be sitting down for long, because I think experience can explain the circumstances better than I can. However, I do understand you had a bout of nausea a moment ago. Would you prefer to be seated?"

"I'm okay."

He stood up, slowly, as if he was reluctant to be above us. The Aunt and I followed suite. A general sense of awkwardness hung over the place while he showed us to the wards. Several other staff and patients were full-on ogling us and I felt quite overcome with this development. The lift was calmer as nobody could stare at us there. We stepped out into a corridor full of curtains and door. We were lead to a door that had the letters 'G-2' on it.

"It is mostly likely you will be in your own room - as it is not often we have young scoliosis patients. Is the room to your liking? Yours will be similar to this one."

"Oh, rather! It's nicer than my study bedroom in the house."

The aged relative even gave her approval of the room's spotless nature and facilities.  
A bathroom could be found in a large room about a metre from the hospital bed, another large bed was close by and a small tv hung in the middle of both of them.

"I'm glad to hear that. Meals will be available for order through our menu. Am I to suppose you will be staying with Bertram, Ms. Travers?"

"Oh yes, Dr. um.. Dr-"

"Jeeves, madam."

"Well Dr. Jeeves, I assure you, me and the young blot will be staying together so long as he doesn't snore too obnoxiously."

His lips turned up slightly with amusement but the look slowly diminished into the stuffed-frog expression again.  
Dr. Jeeves said "I shall explain everything to you once you arrive next week. The surgery will not take place until the Saturday, after you arrive, so as to get you settled in."

Then the two adults had a serious discussion about clothing and suitcases while I looked out of the small window just right from the bed. There was a pause in the convo. and I looked up startled like a badger in headlights. 

"Bertie, we should probably get going now..."

I nodded completely bewildered. For some reason my attention span had been completely lost with the variety of emotions felt throughout the day.

"I'll show you to reception."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hospitial

When people say 'it passed like a blur', or some  
other such variation of the simile, I've never been inclined to believe them. But I assure you the next week in the tale has left rather a sickly coloured blot on the Wooster brain. Anyway, I suppose what I wish to say is that leading up to surgery I hardly  
thought of much else besides inevitable death.

The Drones were disconnected from myself at this  
point, so I had little else to do but occupy the grey matter with some reading, homework doing, and piano playing. To be honest, I wanted the whole thing to be over and my life to go back to how it was pre-hospital. Although the Drones did try to include me,  
I brushed them off quite firmly. They tried to squander Latin translations off me and I felt like I was being used. Not unlike a poor, lonely, sickly, maid-girl in some Victorian novel being bossed around by some old creepy guy in a beard.

Each day was some such feeling of discontentment  
or general unhappiness.   
Nothing else really stuck out to me until the old  
Aunt D. came to pick me up. My clothes, headphones, and other miscellaneous objects had been packed away with help from the Dame Assistant, and the Aunt's specifications, the night before. I wasn't paying much attention to her but I assume all the essentials  
were in tow. Once I had been called to reception just after breakfast I rushed up the stairs, tugged the suitcase and made my way back down the steps trying not to make any noise. The Dame met me at the bottom of the stairs and seemed jolly annoyed at me for  
having a go at the luggage.   
I didn't have much in the way of a reply so instead  
the journey was quite silent.

Several friends waved me a happy 'toodle-pip!' if  
we happened to pass by them.   
Sickeningly, the aged relation had that dashed disgusting  
expression on the old dial and my heart fell through the woodworm floorboards.  
Bile rose up from the pit of my stomach much like  
a snake in one of those long woven things you see in films. A sob threatened to become audible.  
I pushed it down with a hearty "What-ho! What-ho!  
What-ho!".

"Bertie, you dashed fool, are you all packed and  
ready?"

"Of course Aunt D. Ready to be in the faithful hands  
of the Doctors and nurses of Kings, and ready to fix the spine to the straight axis again."

"Quite right."  
Her lips pursed. Nothing more could be said. A gloriously  
heliotrope suitcase disappeared from my hands.

Surprisingly, a driver was waiting beyond the border  
and I looked at the Aunt in confusion.

"Don't make that face, Atilla, I thought it would  
be easier for us after the..."

I nodded.

The car smelt like shoe polish and cream, my mind  
went back to a summer holiday when I was eleven. During holidays I often stayed at Brinkley Court with the Aunt. It was a pleasant time; so long as I was left to my own devices I could explore and other childish entregues.

Cracks in the road bumped the corpus forward and  
a few discomforting, but still manly, noises spilled out the mouth - as well as a few tears (not out my mouth, mind). My drooping head stayed in my hands for a moment whilst I controlled the stiff upper lip.  
I decided at this point distraction was my best bet,  
so I plugged in headphones and lulled myself into a better state of mind through the many mp3 wotsits on my phone.  
Oddly enough the blasted shuffle would not stop playing  
damned melancholy songs, inconvenient is not the word. Anyway, I had to keep switching songs which caused a few rummy looks from certain family members.

Our arrival was much like the last one; we signed  
in with a pretty receptionist and told to wait until someone could show us to the ward.  
People rushed around yelling about some treatment  
or tests, utter rot really.  
A slick haired man shimmered his way towards us.  
I instantly relaxed like a sloth or some other kind of easy-going creature. 

"Ah, Doctor Jeeves." We stood.

My likeness was that of a jelly Tower of Pisa as  
I wobbled back and forth in a sad display of trepidation.  
Warm, firm, hands steadied me via the shoulders so  
the glutenified motions stopped.

"Are you okay?" He asked with a concerned look bracing  
his dignified map.

"I'm okay, if a little nervous."

The Doctor nodded knowingly and directed us to the  
elevator. It was empty and smelt of medical supplies - much like the last time I spent in there.

"Coincidentally enough you're in the room we showed  
you last time."

He took us in and the aged relative settled our luggage,  
I sat down on my bed awaiting new information.   
Doctor Jeeves told us that I'd have to stay with  
my Aunt; it was unlikely I could stay at Eton until the end of the year.  
I perfectly welcomed this idea, nothing interesting  
at school was going on and I would have an extra long summer holiday. My first a-level exams had been done a few weeks or so ago (another story for another day).  
We also discussed how I would be whisked away to  
the op. room first thing in the morning so a shower would be in order. As well as this Dr. Jeeves suggested while surgery was going on Aunt Dahlia should bring a guest so she didn't get bored. I was rather panicked by this point.

"It'll be okay, young blot. You won't know a thing."

"Oh, rather. It's just a bit disconcerting, going  
into a room to have some surgeon guys poke around at your spinal cord." I replied, I was dashed nervy if you couldn't tell.

"I'm going to leave you both to it. Order a meal  
and try to get some rest, you'll be up at 6am." 

"6am? Wow, that's too early on a Saturday dash it!"  
I was goggled.

Doctor Jeeves looked up in what I would call horror,  
and as others would believe mild discontent.

"Goodnight Bertram, goodnight Mrs Travers."

"Night Doctor."

The room fell to silence as the door closed and a  
scary ambience swept through the corpus and I shivered. 

"Well, you'd better have a shower then."

I nodded in agreement and took a towel from my heliotrope  
suitcase. I then walked over to the bathroom door and locked it behind me.

The shower was refreshing, if slightly cold. Honestly,  
in the circumstances I didn't pay much attention to the quality of my personal hygiene. The whole surgery thing was playing on my mind like an earworm or other, similarly gross, creature that stays in your noggin'.  
By golly, I wasn't going to rest easy that night,  
and I knew it. Dinner was almost untouchable, in the way of, I couldn't eat it due to the overuse of some rather grassy tasting herb. I don't know about you, but I tend to steer from the cattle's dieting regime!  
Aunt Dahlia was also off her feed, to an extent -  
I suppose nerves are common in the Wooster bloodline regarding hospitals; visits to them always end badly in my experience.

Hospital bed no.1 accommodated the Wooster corpus  
as well as my usual bed did. The only thing I found a bit odd was the pillows and duvet were stuffed with a strange yellow plastic bag-type deal. Benjamin, my teddybear, hadn't been packed and I was rather missing waking up to the blighter in my arms. The  
aunt complained a bit in the dawn when she found her pillows had somehow found their way onto the floor during the night.

"Blimey!" She bellowed at the poor young nurse who  
had awoken us.  
"My head feels as though someone's taken the neck  
off of it and used it for football practice."

"I'm sorry, Mrs Travers."

At this point someone had come in and asked if I  
would change into a blue sheet of some kind. I took said b. s. and went into the bathroom. I could hardly tie the bloody thing right and I messed up about twice before my body was encased in yet more plastic.  
I came out and was lead by a tall, yet slightly scary  
looking, lady who told me to stay calm. I believe I must have been breathing rather heavily for her to pick up on this or at least looked rather peaky. In any case, it was an almost telepathic experience.  
The aunt was looking shiftily at the double doors  
to what I guess was the operation room, I guessed this because to the words 'operation room' were printed on the doors.

"In you pop, Bertie."

Some blonde-haired beazel instructed me to lay down,  
so I did just that; I'm not one to argue with Doctors.  
The ceiling was decorated with characters from various  
and I remarked on this quite haphazardly.  
"Wow, what's going on up there then? Is that Spongebob?"  
Not my finest hour, I must admit...  
Then a needle jabbed the right noddle and I nodded  
off a treat; or at least I think I did, everything's a bit weird when you're not conscious.

Moving on, the peepers opened themselves in some  
kind of large room. I was still in a large plasticy bed and surrounded but whirring machines - this time, however, I seemed to be rather attached to them via my hand and other, slightly less polite, parts of my body. A bag full of red juice was also attached  
to the Wooster blood supply as well as a small tube from my nose leading to yet another machine.  
"Hello," I mumbled gingerly.

"Ah, Bertie. You're awake. We're just about to move  
you back to the ward. You're on a lot of drugs so try to sleep."

I tried. Or rather I didn't really have to try, I  
just sort of fell into a natural slumberous state without my knowledge. I woke up again just before entering my room, lots of people were around me and I was a little put off.  
I cried out in anguish and witnessed Aunt Dahlia  
jumping to her feet in my peripheral vision. The nurse and various other people began pulling the bed through the room along with those dashed strange machines. I was no longer sure if man was controlling machine or the other way around.

"Bertie. I'm glad you're okay. Everything's going  
to be fine." Aunt Dahlia grinned.

A random nurse gave some advice, "He will be monitored  
and given medication during his stay. Also if you need anything there is a buzzer by his bed."

Once I was settled and cosy, despite the plastic  
sheets, the nurses all left to allow me some rest or to go see some other patients. I can't say I'd paid enough attention.  
My vision was dulling by the second and my eyes closed  
a little at a time until the shutters were black.

"You're so brave..." sniffling ensued but I was too  
indulged in pillowed happiness to bother replying.

The night was long and strange due to the sudden  
appearances and disappearances of nurses. I was told they were making sure all the machine thingygummies were doing their jobs or in other words I was in a 'stable' state. I rather think I wasn't stable but I didn't say so as the drugs were heavily tying me  
down to slumber and my mouth wasn't ready for exertion.  
Sleep came quickly; but then so did dawn.

When dawn broke (around 6:00am I believe), I was  
awoken by Dr. Jeeves. He softly coughed several times as a sheep on a faraway hillside would; it was a pleasant, cosy sound and I wanted to hear it often.

He then gently said, "Bertram, sorry to wake you  
but your medication has to be given."

The Doc. checked those machines again (they're bally  
obsessed with them, I swear), and then put some medicine through my left cannula. It felt tingly, much like an injection - but with far less pain.  
I giggled, and one eighth of an eyebrow moved on  
the Jeevesian map.

"What time is it?" Aunt Dahlia rumbled, covering  
her mouth for the coming yawn. I quite like that, coming yawn, I mean, sounds like a film or something... Anyway, Dr. Jeeves explained to her it was around half past 6.  
"Blimey, that's earlier than Tom get's up. Let me  
tell you, he's an early riser!"

Dr Jeeves smiled at her and continued with the inspecting  
of the cannulas in each hand, the weird thing attached to the clip on my finger, and the nostril wotsit. He seemed to have no issues with it all so he sat in the chair located next to Aunt D's bed, which I assumed was for visitors.

"So the plan is for Bertie to rest for about two  
days, and by that I mean today and tomorrow. The oxygen will be taken during the evening because it should no longer be needed. Medication around the third day will be given orally. As well as all this we are going to change your drainage bag soon and the  
bedding."

The aged relation nodded at this quite large statement.  
A nurse came in whilst this was being said, as if by magic, and laid her hands of the catheter, I yelped. She didn't say anything. Dr. Jeeves left the room.  
I closed my eyes for the amount of time it took the  
bag to be changed. Dashed embarrassing having someone fiddle around with something quite attached to you. Once my person had become as flushed as pickled beetroot the nurse gave her leave and told us someone would come in later so the linens could be changed.  
That someone once again turned out to be Doctor Jeeves.  
Dashed odd how hospitals work out, isn't it? I was quite happy with this development as it meant I knew my sheets would be pressed, prim and perfect (to use not but two alliterative adjectives) much like the man himself. In a sense there was something reassuring  
to be had about having a capable and dashingly handsome Doctor about the place, brightened it up a bit after all the medical stuff.  
Now, the changing of the bedding was all and dandy  
but the Wooster corpus had to be moved to the side so various corners of sheets could be reached. The Doc. grappled at my shoulders pinning me down in an awkward fashion. He told me to move my hips slowly towards the Aunt. I did so with a small amount of sweat  
beading on my forehead. When whatever needed to be done was done, I was shifted back again.

"Thanks, awfully, Doc. Couldn't have done that wheeze  
without you, what?"

"No problem Bertram, it is my job after all."  
He seemed to smile contently without actually smiling.  
The resting relation gave a tentative look.

I slept through the afternoon up until dinner. The  
staff suggested I nibble on something or other so I had a few crackers and a large glass of water. I couldn't quite hold the glass properly so I spilled a little down my front.   
The Aunt sighed, "Dash it all Bertie, I want to go  
to Brinkley. Hospitals are so confining."

"It's ok. You can go if you like, I'm being looked  
after fine." 

"Well, I'm going to get a hot chocolate from the  
machine, is that alright?"  
I nodded.

Gingerly, I tried to grab my phone which was resting  
on my weird lap-table type thing. Once the thing was in hand I had a quick look at the social media of my Holland house buddies. Nothing was going on, as per usual, just a few photos of newt tanks from Gussie. My head began to spin at this point so I put the  
phone back down and tried to sleep until more nurses came in.

"Hello, Bertie." A young nurse was doing the same  
thing Dr. Jeeves was this morning - although it was much darker now.  
"We're taking off the oxygen. Tomorrow you should  
begin feeling a little more awake; try to get some rest now."  
I was out like a light.

Morning came, as it does, and I was shaken awake  
again. This time, however, it was Aunt D doing the shaking. Then I remembered that the consulting, if that's the word I want, chappie was supposed to look at my progress.  
His grey eyes looked me up and down like I had become  
an alien or other such rare specimen. Then a lady joined us and spoke about something to do with dosage.

"Hello, Bertram. You're oxygen has been taken out  
and we are going to start putting you on some oral medication."

To be honest I wasn't in the all together at this  
point so I rather think I've muddled up his words a bit, but you get the point. Oral medication meant capsules and stuff, well, you see, tablets aren't really my forte. I sort of gape like a not-quite-dead fish and can't swallow the blasted things down. That  
day my mouth managed the things no problem, probably something to do with mental state, but I must admit I cried a little afterwards - who knows why! I took two tablets, one for pain and another for inflammation. Then came the third. It was a suppository,  
and you can imagine how much I blushed when I found out what that meant. After all the trauma of that incident, I had to have an injection in my stomach so I didn't get blood clots from being in bed all day. It stung like several thousand wasps deciding the  
Wooster corpus was the bally limit whilst someone squeezed lemons into the wounds and I cried again. Another bout of this made the nurses (finally, might I add), leave and I was left to drowse.

It's just dawned on me that the nature of the narrative  
has been quite jumpy, or at least it seems so to me with all this biffing around in bed. At any rate, this sleeping after doing mild activities continued for another day. I took tablets, cried, had some nausea, stood up (much to my amazement), and had one  
cannula taken out. The standing thing was bloody difficult, it felt so strange, I had grown 2 inches in only a few days and the rods supporting me were inconvenient in the bending department; I was told this would change with time. It made me feel a lot less  
ill despite the other one still being there.  
This, in turn, lead to several other things being  
removed. The day after all this excitement had happened I was asked to walk around the room. Everyone clapped and was ever-so proud when I did so unaided by the Physio bird. Thus, my catheter was removed - what bliss! It was slightly strange having the thing  
taken out, other than that I was no longer uber embarrassed to be man-handled.   
I also, inconveniently, had to ring that familiar  
buzzer to be taken to and from the toilet just in case I fell. By this point I was eating more and more, and in all honesty I wanted to go home.  
Wherever that is.

The night of post-catheter was marvellously comfy  
and I even managed to bargain with a nurse to take the 2nd cannula out just before 11pm. I promised her I would try to eat a full English breakfast tomorrow; bacon, eggs, and all! She laughed at this and said she'd ask the caterers if they would bring it up  
just after I finish the whole tablet malarky.

So the morning came and so did the first meal, I  
felt a bit like a reformed man. Well, as reformed as a seventeen year-old can be after being sick and bedridden for a while.  
Due to my spike in improvement I was finally allowed  
walk to the bathroom on my own. The physio bird popped in and said she'd be back later to see if I could manage the stairs. I had some X-rays done and everyone, including the radiologists (if that's the word I want), was excited by this notion. Obviously the  
Bertram grey matter wasn't up to standard so I didn't understand the hullabaloo until after I'd stumbled my way up and down a flight of stairs and the Physio said, "Well done, Bertie, you can start packing your stuff now."  
My jaw dropped to the floor - if you'll excuse the  
rhyme.  
I almost ran out the bally door as an endless summer  
struck as quite the reward for a week practically bed-ridden! The Aunt, the Physio and I made way to the ward where the bags had been packed. I gawped.

"Stop standing there like a spare part and get in  
the car!"

"Dr. Jeeves will pick Bertie up in a wheelchair so  
he doesn't tire with the journey. I will see you in a few months for Physiotherapy." The Physiotherapist smiled. I smiled. It was a damned smile exchange!

Now, I know what you're thinking - not that I'm a  
mind reader of course, but you get the cliche. The Doc. and I had a pleasant trip in the lift and I managed to ask him, why he was so dashed young; in fact why everyone was so dashed young, the youngness of the staff had quite confused me.

"Why is everyone so young?"

"I'm sure you're aware that this is a practice hospital..."  
I nodded.  
"Well that means we are all training for these positions  
in a true hospital environment - apart from the surgeon's who we employ from other hospitals."

"So, wait, how old are you? Should I really refer  
to you as Doctor?"

"I'm nineteen. You can refer to me as you wish, Bertram,  
but I suppose the title Doctor does make my job have more verisimilitude."

"I guess so, Doctor." I added 'Doctor' just to fulfill  
the request.

By the time this had wrapped up into one of those  
neat, knot-like, packages, we had reached the car. Very strange how scenery can just disappear like that.  
Anyway, the corpus was stuffed into the car and we set-off to Brinkley Court. Brinkley Court - home of Angela, Bonzo, the  
aged Aunt and (of course), Uncle Tom. I fell asleep in the car because it was rather exerting all that jostling about in the hospital.


End file.
